Renascence
by koozbane
Summary: really quick and sloppy and self indulgent bucky-centric prattling. - Obviously, he's stalling. They both know it. He's not even trying to hide it, away from the prying eyes of their unwelcome addition. He would rather this just be him and Steve. A duo, not a trio, going in to face this. It's not her place, it's not her business. It's not SHIELD's business. It's his. Steve's, only


There was a time, maybe years ago in a life that hardly even feels like it was his some days, where Bucky ached for the city. The busy streets and buildings breaking the sky had been his home. The sidewalks had been his playground when he was nothing but a snot nosed youngster, kicking cans (literal cans, mind you) across the roadways with Steve. In his older years the alleyways had acted as a maze to get lost in on hot days with pretty girls, tucking themselves into the dark corners with delight. And always, even when he was a grown man ducking into a ditch with dirt exploding around him, it had been home.

He knows that, distantly. But the memories feel far away today, teasing the pads of his fingers and twisting just past his grip.

"Are you ready?" Steve asks, and Bucky looks out the window of the car to the pedestrians wandering past them.

He's not. They could sit in the car with its tinted windows and bulletproof exterior until the sky goes dark, and he wouldn't be ready. He's sure the blonde man can tell. If his hands curled into fists aren't enough indication, the slightly faster than normal beating of his heart is a dead giveaway. Bucky only knows he can hear it because he can hear Steve's, too. Slower than his own. Steady. Calm. Reassuring. At least, it should be.

"Yes." Bucky lies, and when he looks over at his friend he's already frowning.

Bless his soul, Steve doesn't call him out. Bucky is grateful for it. Instead, the man behind the shield opens the door on his own side and exits the vehicle. Bucky does the same, planting one foot at a time on the concrete and rising out of the car. The air feels thicker, here. Smokey. There's so much going on and so many people and so much to _watch.  
_So many variables and independents, potential entry points and obstacles, things obstructing their view and path. So many people watching him watching them.

Two men their size are bound to draw a few glances regardless of who they are. Captain America, a reasonably notable figure, only adds to the problem. There are a few girls pointing and giggles, trying for discreet and failing miserably. A teenager cocking his cell phone to get a picture. A young girl bouncing on her heels and whispering loudly to her guardian. A man down the street on the phone, eying them closely. An old couple getting into a taxi across the street stopping to take them in.

He longs for Wakanda. For the modest hut he claimed as his home with open fields and nothing to block him in, close enough to the city to observe without being involved. Bucky even misses the goats, loudly reprimanding him should he wander too far or take too long to feed them. Quiet, aside from his furry companions. If Wakanda is a utopia, New York City has become the slums.

A group of young adults in dirty green aprons emerge from one of the doors in the alley and step aside from the entrance to light cigarettes and take a break. They're looking at him. Not at _them._ At him. Murmuring to each other without breaking their gaze. Paranoia crawls up his spine and makes a home in the base of his skull, nagging at him. If Bucky strains his ears, he's sure he can hear them past the bustle of the street.

"So they were _neighbors_ -"

"I swear, ma, you can hear him chewin' like a _cow _from the next _room_ and I'm trying -"

"Doesn't look a little... familiar to you?"

Talking about him, he's sure.

Bucky can practically hear the gears turning in his head, as he debates the chances of making a quick and clean getaway with no civilian or property casualties. Hop over the trunk of the car, avoid traffic and cross the street. Very carefully avoid the woman trying to contain her toddler while she pushes an infant in a stroller. Make it to the other side, use the alleys to cut down one street, hail and borrow a cab, get out of -

The escape plan is interrupted within seconds of its start by a hand on his shoulder. Blue eyes and a tight smile stepping into his view. Steve, sharing a quiet look of support. Squeezing his good shoulder gently and using his grip to direct him toward the quaint antique shop ahead of them.

"It's just Brooklyn, Buck."

Following the slight push, he steps away from the car and gives the people in the alley a dirty sidelong look. "Nothing is just anything, anymore."

Steve laughs and shoves his shoulder a little more, following closely behind him. "It's not that bad."

"It's worse." Bucky decides, putting his flesh palm flat on the door to push it open.

Over his head a bell rings, one long gentle chime, and the distractions of the outside world are blocked out when Steve shuts the door behind him. The lock clicks, a noise that feels much too loud in the dim shop. Trapping him between the glass windows and tall wooden shelves filled with various objects that fit shockingly well with the time period he grew up in.

From the inside, the little store feels familiar. Bucky can't quite place it, but he's sure he's been here before. Stood in this spot before, looking around at the tan walls and scuffed floorboards. Wandered the short aisles and examined the wares. Held an old camera, brushed his fingers across dusty plates that once belonged to set given with a dowry, turned a damaged pistol in his hand and wondered over the engraving on the side. _"Do you think ours will be here someday?" _The words ring through his head followed shortly after by the image of a man in a round hat with a thick red mustache.

Bucky wants to ask who that man is, and why the thought of him makes his chest hurt. Instead, he says: "I've been here."

"You have." Steve confirms with a nod.

When he looks over his shoulder at the tall blonde stepping toward the counter, Bucky swears time rewinds around them. The undersized white shirt and jeans are replaced with brown slacks and a lighter long sleeved shirt in the same color, both of which are equally unfitting and stained with dirt at the elbows and knees. Slightly shorter hair and thick black boots. Dingier windows with smudges and yellow lighting, a symphony of laughter in at least seven different tones.

He blinks, and it's gone. There's just Steve, in his white shirt with the symbol on the shoulder, and the jeans that look stiff with how new and clean they are. Shoes fit for running and hair just a little past needing a cut, flopping against his forehead when he tilts his head.

"We've been here." Bucky tries, making an attempt not to look too unsure of himself, and is rewarded with a wistful smile.

"We have." Steve says, and for a moment he thinks that's all he'll get. "The Commandos made this place home base, for a while. Dugan said it was because of the location, but we all knew he was rationed to the girl who faced the facility."

"Adelaide." It comes to him without warning, but it feels solid. A fact. One, of few, that he is sure of.

The words make Steve blink a few times in surprise, before he turns to look at him. "What?"

"Adelaide." Bucky repeats, moving forward to inspect one of the typewriters abandoned on a stand. "Her name." He explains, just in case the other man is too slow to catch on. "It was Adelaide."

Steve smiles in a fond, sad way that tugs at his heart and makes him a little nauseous. "Figures you would remember the name of a pretty dame."

"She had the biggest dimples I've ever seen." He hears himself say it more than he actually consciously says it, and fails to conceal the way his lips tip upward. "Can't say he wasn't more focused on the size of other things, though."

Without his permission, comes the memory of reading up on all of them and himself in the museum. The only Howling Commando to give his life on the lines. As quickly as it came, his smile hardens into a line. They're probably both dead now, too. Bucky sort of hopes they are. He hopes they died before he could live in their minds as anything other than James Barnes. He hopes Tim got to go home, and take the pretty redhead with the blinding grin with them, and pop out a troop of ginger clones.

If Steve catches the shift in his demeanor, he only has time to show it in the angle of his brows and the way his shoulders drop. An interruption comes before he can summon anything else to clear the air, in the form of a petite woman with olive skin and bright eyes appearing behind the counter. A first glance at her doesn't indicate she's a threat, but a longer look betrays her. Bucky recognizes the sharp angles of a firearm in the bulge underneath her SHIELD issued sweater, and the way her hand rests further back on her hip than is comfortable for faster access to said weapon.

She must know who he is, he decides quickly. Otherwise she wouldn't be focusing on him so much over the third person in the room. Steve doesn't pay it any mind, of course. He just smiles and exchanges a greeting spattered with pleasantries. She returns all of them, and Bucky can't help but note the tightness in her neck when she turns her head to acknowledge the Captain then has to turn her whole upper body to properly face him. The way her left shoulder seems to pull when she shifts her chin.

An issue with her shoulder, maybe? It would explain the slight unevenness to them, and why she's regulated to a version of desk duty. That's where he'll get her, if she tries to strike first. Irritating the old injury will stun her, if not immobilize her, and give them time to flee without having to seriously harm her. It wouldn't be much trouble for him alone to take her down, even prior to being enhanced. Factor in that and Steve - who, he thinks it is safe to assume, will back him up - and the only thing they have to worry about it is other potential SHIELD operatives around. In the facility, or otherwise.

Like the man on the cell phone, or the people in the alley, or couple sharing lunch in the diner across the street -

Steve is staring at him. The only reason he notices is because the woman had turned back to do the same, looking more than a little uncomfortable. Bucky realizes he's taken a couple step backs to stand between two rows of shelves, metal fingers cradling the wood of the one on his left. He's not really sure what he planned to do with it, unconsciously, a few moments ago. Knock it over to cause a distraction? Throw it? Knock them all over like dominoes to break the window and hightail it out of there?

"Sergeant Barnes." The woman addresses him eventually. The title feels unfamiliar. Like it isn't his. It crawls under his skin and does nothing but irritate him. "Excuse me, Sergeant -"

"James." He really doesn't want her to call him that again. And letting anyone other than Steve, who he kind of figures has a right to, call him Bucky feels too intimate. Too familiar. "Just James."

"James." She tests it out, continues only after he nods. "I promise you, you will find no one here wants to cause you harm."

Bucky scowls at her, and then at Steve who rolls his eyes. "_Wants_ to." He emphasizes. "If you're going for reassuring, you're certainly missing the mark."

She considers that, shrugs a shoulder - her _right _shoulder, which indicates he's right about the left being restricted - and tries again. "There are photographs of you in the observation deck." Which, okay, that throws him off and he grimaces. "The Howling Commandos were integral in the history of SHIELD."

Shaking his head, he goes to contradict her. Because that wasn't him, because he was gone by then, and he was already someone else, and he's still not really sure if that's him now, so she's wrong in a few different ways. He's not going to list them all off for her, or inform her that he isn't even sure he wants to see any of the photos they've plastered on the walls as a tribute. But still, there's no reason _not _to tell her she's barking up the wrong tree.

"This is Agent Yuen." Steve, unfortunately, beats him to speaking. The look he's giving him says he knows exactly how his brain has been working the past ten to fifteen minutes. "She's the communications specialist for the Brooklyn Facilities."

She steps forward and raises one hand - her _right _hand, Bucky tries and fails not to take note - in invitation. A handshake. Or a trap. "Min-ji."

A trap or a handshake. A handshake or a trap. A friendly gesture or a plot to take him by surprise. Bucky weighs his options for a while, and she stays put with her hand outstretched. Steve watches from behind her, and offers nothing in the way of help when he gives him a questioning look. Eventually, he has to step out of his attempt to retreat and away from the shelves.

Bucky takes her hand for only a few seconds, briefly considering how thankful he is that he doesn't have to use his left hand, and briskly shakes it before withdrawing like he's been burned. Min-ji doesn't seem to take offense, only turning her back to him - he's a little horrified for her, quite frankly, no one should be comfortable putting him behind them - to look at Steve again. She makes a vague gesture with one hand toward the desk.

On cue, Steve leans over the side of the desk to take the phone off of the hook and put it down on the desk. Then he presses the seven key three times and hangs it back up. Bucky has been firsthand involved in enough spy-movie-esque situations to know where this is going. So he's not at all surprised when to his left, at the far end behind one oddly angled shelf away from the windows, comes the _'shhhhk!' _of a door sliding open. Min-ji doesn't wait for either of them before heading in the direction of the new exit.

"I don't like her." Bucky snips as soon as she's out of earshot, giving Steve a sharp look.

"You'll change your mind." Steve laughs, and he feels absolutely betrayed.

"Not likely."

Obviously, he's stalling. They both know it. He's not even trying to hide it, away from the prying eyes of their unwelcome addition. He would rather this just be him and Steve. A duo, not a trio, going in to face this. It's not her place, it's not her business. It's not _SHIELD's _business. It's his. Steve's, only because of his insisted association. And, though he doesn't want to dwell on it at all, more than anyone else, it's Tony Stark's.

A hand lands on his lower arm, long fingers framing the appendage leading back to a wide shoulders and a sturdy frame.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was born on March 10, 1917. He's 102 years old as of this past month. He had three sisters, all of whom looked like just like his ma. All of whom died years ago. He's an image of his father, who died for his country before Bucky even reached his ribs. His mother was a stout woman with a knack for cooking, he was gone when she died. He had a childhood friend named Steve Rogers with a heart too big for his body. He and his mother Sarah, who succumbed to illness well before her time, were as much to him as his own flesh and blood. He was a boxer for years, he was happy. And when he was a soldier for many years after that, he found it hard to stay it that way.

"One more jump." Steve says, and Bucky struggles to focus on him past the warmth of his hand on his skin.

"We don't know where we'll land." He manages.

"Never will unless we jump."

"Did you ever learn how to put on a harness and a parachute?"

The joke lands, and Steve grips his arm firmly when he laughs. It makes his soul sing, settles him. "If I say no, will you teach me?"

"Excuse me!" The shouted interruption comes from Min-ji peering around the shelf at them. "I didn't plan on leaving Stark to his own devices for so long."

"You know what they say about a Stark without a distraction." Steve jeers, giving him a knowing look.

Bucky does not, in fact, know what they say about a Stark without a distraction. He gets the feeling it doesn't actually matter, because Steve turns so his back is to the hidden door and steps in that direction, pulling him along. As he always has, and always will, Bucky follows. He lets Steve step backward until they're only a few feet from the light up door, smiling at him and urging him along with nothing but a shine to his eyes that the former fist of HYDRA has never been able to ignore or write off.

He wants to, he's pretty sure he wants to, but there's a string around his throat that should feel like a noose but doesn't and it anchors them together. Inexplicably cracking the mold of time and pulling them both centuries away from their original placement and to this point. Defying all logical and realistic odds and assumptions, ignoring any attempts from the multiverse to sever it. Unavoidable, unbreakable, beyond explanation. Reassuring. Terrifying. Damning.

When they've finally joined her, Min-ji places steps through the doorway. Steve goes next, and Bucky brings up the rear. He watches behind them until the metal door slides shut and seals them in. Seals their fate. It's a moment where Bucky doesn't run that will ripple through time.

Their surroundings are lit better than the shop, with large round light fixtures. They're standing at the top of a metal balcony that leads on one side to an observation deck, the other side to stairs that go down to a round table bordered a few feet away by monitors. Beyond that, down a few more stairs, are a couple more tables and a hall with one door on either side and one at the end that looks to be an elevator.

"We've done some remodeling." Min-ji puts in playfully, stepping toward the observation deck.

Bucky only grunts in response, sticking close to Steve as he continues to survey the area. There are at least seven SHIELD agents below them. Some consumed by their work with electronic displays and papers, some watching them just as closely as he is. There's no telling what's beyond the other doors, or if there are more floors with more operatives. If they need to make a getaway, he knows his arm will take down the door easily. Shuri outfitted him with quite a few upgrades, despite his objections. The harder part will be avoiding gunfire and disabling their adversaries _gently _to avoid a scolding later.

"Not a lot." Steve notes.

"Not on this floor." The dark haired woman in front of them goes on to say something else, but it's lost when Bucky sees what she opens the door and his two companions step inside.

No matter how much his brain tries to convince his legs to move and his eyes to actually shift to take in the new surroundings presented to him, he can't do it. He stands in the doorway with his arms at his side, neck craned to view the photos hanging on the wall. He doesn't linger on the brunette man with his feet propped up on the table, or the box settled beside his chair, or the dark skinned man seated to the right, or the papers laid on the tabletop.

In fact, none of those other things ever really register. Along the wall, high enough up to be looking down through the glass side of the room, are a number of photos. The moment the door had swung to reveal them, he had been drawn in to them. He's almost surprised Min-ji wasn't just fucking with him when they were mentioned earlier in conversation.

Most are group photos, of the Howling Commandos. Huddled in the mud, draped across a table with beers abandoned around them, gathered around a table, in the barracks on site. Some are of individuals, or only a small selection of the crew. Each features a date written on the bottom right, in the same scrawl each time. They seem to go by age, left to right. Bucky judges this by his absence partway through, and then Steve's, and then the addition of faces he's mostly sure he doesn't know.

"Does he have something against sitting?" The voice startles him from his thoughts, drags him out of trenches and gunfire, and his head snaps to the side. The umber toned man is raising both brows at him, now. "You want to take a seat?"

The real answer is 'no' once again. But Bucky does, shutting the door behind him as he belatedly notices everyone else has already done so. The only seat left is the one at the end across from Stark, with Steve on one side and Min-ji on the other. The man he doesn't recognize sits on her other side, a little close in quarters but they don't seem to mind. The table isn't very large, it can't be to fit comfortably in the room, and he has time to take note of it being bolted to the floor. He can't help but wonder if it always has been, or if it's for their benefit with him in the room. He's pretty sure he can tear it from the floor either way.

The silence spreads for a few seconds, suffocating. Steve is the first to break it, clearing his throat. "Right."

"Right." Comes Tony's quick response, frowning at the blonde. "We're skipping the small talk?"

"We don't have to." Min-ji replies diplomatically.

"Are we going to ask how the trip was for everyone?" He mocks, turning his gaze to her now. "Pretty sure we did that when we got in, Minnie."

"Min-_ji_." Is her tart correction.

Tony only shrugs, looking between Steve and Bucky again. It's hard to miss the hardness to his gaze, the stiff set of his limbs when he rests an elbow on the back of his chair. "So, boys, what about _your _ride in?"

Steve looks like he's about to actually answer, and entertain these shenanigans. It's honestly a little horrifying how much he wants to meet in the middle, and just how naive he is to think doing so will amend anything. Bucky is entirely too tempted to throw something at him to keep his lips taped shut, but that would only cause a momentary commotion to take them away from this.

"We can skip it." Bucky says swiftly, and all eyes are drawn to him again. He has to use more self control than he would like to not shift his shoulders in discomfort. "The small talk."

"Phenomenal." Tony sighs, as if this is the biggest weight from his shoulders. "So, you -"

"Don't." His tag-along snips, raising a finger in warning.

"Rhodey." The genius lays a hand on his chest in mock offense. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I definitely do." Rhodey, as Bucky now knows him, rubs at one eye and shakes his head.

"Safe to assume it was not appropriate." Min-ji puts in blandly, and keeps cool under the withering glare she receives. "I've heard plenty of stories about you already."

The glare morphs to a shit eating grin, and Tony Stark puts on the face cameras have been capturing for years. "I'm flattered."

All of this is somehow worse than the usual small talk. Their easy back and forth fills him with envy that melts into anger, irritation. He hasn't had any desire for such a simple thing in years. Communication. Companionship. Camaraderie. Light, teasing conversation. Watching them - Steve included, now that the tenseness has faded from the room a tad, and he can insert himself comfortably - interact grates on him. It shouldn't, he's sure. This is an inconsequential thing, really. Maybe it's just because it's Steve, he reasons, it causes him more upset.

The more he considers it, the less he understands. Bucky hasn't _wanted _for anything in since before his first time in cryo. He can't place where he stopped. Somewhere between the excruciating process of pushing serum through his veins and getting strapped into the metal seat that follows him through his dreams. He can recall aching for a comfortable bed, and food that isn't mush, and reprieve from the cold. And then... Nothing. Everything was about the mission, whatever was presented to him for decades. There was never any room for desires, or inclinations, or preferences, or different paths. There was never any room for Bucky, in the Winter Soldier.

He can't help but wonder, now, if there's room for the Winter Soldier in Bucky. The answer doesn't come to him, but he's self aware enough to recognize that the Soldier lurks whether he wants him to or not. It's never a question of _if _he's there. It's _where _he is, wandering the maze of streets that make up his mind. But always, without a doubt, he's there.

When he wakes in the mornings the Soldier is there, forcing him to his feet to take care of the necessary daily hygienic routine. Forcing him to asses his outerwear and place something on his person. When he trains the Soldier is there, reminding him of the lethal force in his bones. Even now, sitting at this table, the Soldier is there. Bucky can almost feels the hand on the back of his head, holding his chin up and his gaze forward so that he comes across unruffled and set in stone. Speaking in dull tones beside his ear to give him feedback on escape routes, and potential weapons, and the amount of time it will take to disable everyone in the room.

Ignoring everything that _should _be reassuring to him, he decides that the presence of the Soldier is it. He knows, should anything incapacitate him, the Soldier will take over to ensure their continued existence. Which, in many ways, scares him. He knows what the Soldier will do if he has to. All the years standing in this body with him, with this part of him, have made him grow accustomed to it. Uncomfortably comfortable.

At his side - always at his side, even when he shouldn't be, like he shouldn't now - Steve is trying to ease into the topic he knows they're here to approach. Bucky. His crimes. What they're going to do with him. As if he doesn't have a say in any of it. And he kind of supposes it makes sense that he doesn't. If he can't trust his own mind and body, he doesn't expect them to do so either.

"I killed your parents." Bucky hears himself say, and the room goes still. Min-ji looks appropriately aghast in the corner of his vision, and Tony's face hardens.

"You did." Is the only response he gets. Careful. Measured. Expectant.

"That's what you were going to say, right?" The twitch of Tony's brow is the response. Bucky keeps eye contact, steady. "A few minutes ago. 'So, you killed my parents.'"

Cringing, Rhodes looks apprehensively between them. Tony doesn't break his gaze, searching his eyes for something Bucky can't identify, then gives an aloof shrug. "If you're going to act like a nanny catching their ward in a lie, you can save your breath."

"Wasn't planning on it." Bucky admits. "But noted."

The look aimed his way is careful. Calculating. He's just... observing him. Waiting for some break, twitch, stumble - or maybe something _else _but it's anyone's guess as to what. Bucky has had a lifetime of being watched. Crowds around the square, boxing gloves secure over his fists like a second skin. During inspections to see if he was fit for duty and war, and overseers at his shoulder in camp and on the field. Strapped to a chair, until morphed ghost relieved him. Returning to base, partaking in photographs and delayed videos, in debriefings. For years after that, firmly caged in by HYDRA. By the media, the government, and Steve while on the run. Quite frankly, he's rather grown tired of it.

Bucky licks his lips in a nervous habit he finds natural now, and glances to Steve to take in the unsure expression he's sporting. "I remember them." Not that it needs to be said, anyway. He told him as much when they fought last time. "I..."

Suddenly, he's lost for words. He's not even aware of where he intended to go with this, but it's a little late to backtrack now. Rhodey is looking from him to Tony and back again. Bucky realizes that he isn't there for muscle, like he had originally assumed. There's an amount of sadness to his eyes, an unguarded shine of worry. Moral support, or containment, for the man behind Iron Man? Unexpected. But then, no one would expect him to need the same in Steve. Fair's fair.

"Buck." Steve has a hand on his shoulder now. Bucky isn't sure how long he's sat there, looking at the spot just over the last Stark's shoulder. "You don't have to do this."

"December sixteenth." Bucky forces his voice to stay steady. "Nineteen-ninety-one. The target was en route to the Pentagon with the package. Mission statement: Retrieve the package with no witnesses. Covert assignment."

Gently, from his right, Min-ji clears her throat. "James, this is not a debriefing."

"It feels like one." He shoots back quickly, frowning. When he looks back to Tony, the other man is suspiciously quiet.

"It doesn't have to."

Her response makes him go quiet, leaving room for Rhodey to comment. "Was there a point to that?"

"Yes." Comes the immediate response from Steve, though there's no way for him to really know.

"The tar -" Bucky has to stop, clear his throat, try again. "_Howard _recognized me."

"You never told me that." The Captain says, blinking at him.

Bucky shrugs once. "It wasn't relevant."

"You still killed him." Tony isn't quite sneering at him yet, so he's going to take that as a positive.

"I heard him." He continues, unable to stop the frown sliding onto his face. "I hesitated. And then I didn't."

The frown decorating the planes of his face goes from guilty and remorseful to distant and confused. Bucky can remember, he thinks he can remember, but everything feels hazy. His boots sticking to wet gravel and dirt and grass, leaving a traceable trail he knows he knew he would have to cover before his exit. When he inhales he thinks he can still taste the air, thick and damp with the recent rain and the promise of snow soon to follow. He thinks he can feel the way his metal arm faltered, the way he _thinks _his arm faltered, and spasmed in protest of his hesitation. And he thinks he can hear him, can track the shock and devastation filtered through his tone, _Sergeant Barnes? _He thinks he thinks he _thinks _-

Bucky thinks a lot of things, these days.

He never used to do that, either. Everything used to get cut off by the Soldier, derailed and displaced. Rejected and disposed of. Taken swiftly out of play. Removed from consideration without a second thought. Letting things go unchecked is overwhelming on occasion. Annoying incredibly often. Mostly it proves to be an unwelcome distraction. Which is not to say he dislikes it, necessarily. It's a good thing, a good sign. Proof that he's himself, more than just the Winter Soldier, and more than just the man who lost his life from that fall from the train.

It's just that sometimes, like right now, the lapse in focus is the opposite of what he needs. Not to mention the fact that he still isn't even sure if he can trust all of his thoughts and memories, or always clearly distinguish between what he should and shouldn't consider reliable. So, sure, Bucky thinks a lot of things. But he can't trust any of them at face value. For the rest of his life, he thinks, there will always be a necessary period of questioning and evaluation.

"Where do you think he goes when he does that?" Tony questions airily, looking around the room.

"Doesn't look like anywhere pleasant." Rhodes remarks, grimacing.

When Bucky looks at Steve, he raises both brows comically. "You with us, Bucky?"

"Yes." Admittedly, that's also always questionable. The dark haired man gives a shrug that borders on sheepish. "I was thinking."

"This should be good." Notes Tony, leaning forward.

When Bucky stops to analyze the smaller man's posture and expression, he's surprised to find no underlying animosity. Curiosity, amusement, expectancy, but nothing more. If he's expecting some long exposition on the events of the night, or his parents' last words, he's going to be disappointed. Then again, he's probably going to be disappointed no matter what comes out of his mouth. Talking about this so frankly was a bad idea. Bucky regrets it, now.

"You look like your mother." He hears himself say, and Tony's face goes blank. "But you sound like him."

Across the table, he sees Rhodey shift. His shoulders go back, eyes on no one but the brunette beside him. Alert. Expecting an outburst, or some drastic display of negative emotions in general. But nothing comes. No anger or sadness mixes into Tony's features, and his slack posture doesn't stiffen. He just taps a finger on the table, considering the words. Bucky thinks he made the wrong turn somewhere, can't help but await the verbal stabs.

When a minute passes and nothing comes, Bucky finds himself unable to stop himself from filling the silence. "If you want me incarcerated, I'll go willingly."

"Bucky -" Steve starts, flinching.

"No." Bucky brings him to a halt with one somber word. He doesn't really know why the idea bothers him so much, anyway. It's not like he's the one facing potential eternity in a cell. The possibility is one he accepted when he first broke free of HYDRA, one he has prepared himself for without question. "I know what I did."

"Well, we don't have the death penalty in this state." Comes the light, thoughtful response from Tony.

Appalled, Steve looks over to the genius. "That was never on the table."

"It's a light sentence." It's fair, Bucky decides. He deserves it, whether he was fully in control of himself or not.

It was still him, really. The same physical being, roaming around and leaving devastation behind him. The same hands, one warm with life and the other warmed by turning gears and active wires connected to his shoulder. Bucky remembers all of it, all of them, and he knows that means it was still him somewhere. Every last moment is seared into him mind eternally. It's the one thing he doesn't have to question here.

Coming in here and expecting anything less would have been just silly. Tony had tried to kill him, the last time they were face to face. And he has committed an uncountable number of war crimes, crimes in general, and acts of terror. Bucky is dangerous, he knows he is, and a nearly uncontrollable variable. Sealing him away for whatever remains of his life would be for the best. Safe. Secure. For everyone else. For him, too.

After what feels like hours but can't possibly be, the shorter man directly across the table drops his arms and pushes away from the table. Bucky is sure, for a moment, that he's going to attack. Form an assault. Take advantage of this situation while he still can. He can see it happening before he's even fully pushed away from the table. The Iron Man glove coming around his wrist, a repulsor blast streaming into his chest. Bucky thinks that, maybe, this is what he gets for showing up here and trusting anyone _not _to try to kill him for once.

Plot twist: Tony Stark does not try to kill him.

Instead, he bends down in his seat to reach into the box beside him and withdraws a thick stack of papers. He straightens, not even sparing them a glance, and tosses them toward Bucky. The papers slide over the tablestop and he reaches out with his left hand - just in case, because it's more durable than his flesh arm - to stop them, palm flat on the top. He can see _Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division _across the top, partially concealed by his metal phalanges.

"That's not actually what I'm here for." Tony says.

Steve looks at the papers under the metal, frowning. "What are those?"

To Bucky's right, Min-Ji snorts. Tony gives a similar reaction, coughing to disguise a laugh. Even Rhodes makes a funny sort of noise of amusement, but he does a better job of at least trying to stifle it. He figures must be missing some sort of reference, because that question wasn't even close to humorous. He makes a note to Google it, later, if he isn't confined for his wrongdoings.

"They're papers." The other brunette man says shortly, tone lilting like he's addressing a group of toddlers.

Rhodey lightly smacks the back of his hand against his friend's arm, rolling his eyes. "It's an agreement."

"Potentially." Min-Ji puts in quickly.

"We're not amending anything." Tony gives her a hard, unwavering look.

Bucky frowns. "An agreement."

"Of a sort." Tony shrugs at him.

"Who wrote it?" Steve asks, looking very much like he wants to snatch it up and go through it paragraph by paragraph with a literary analyst.

"Pepper." The other man admits, waving one hand at them. "Natasha helped."

"Let me guess," the blonde grimaces and leans back, arms crossed. "Co-signed by Fury."

"Well..." Tony trails off.

"Not exactly." Rhodey fills in.

"What does _that _mean?" Is Steve's accusatory remark. "What did you do?"

They start discussing it, and Bucky tunes them out. He's not feeling much for conversation right now. Even if he were, the papers in front of him are calling for his attention. He picks them up with care, tentatively curling his fingers around them and examining the neatly typed pages like they're his new mission details. His name, along with a four digit case number, are bolded underneath of the title.

The pages following it are filled with information. What is, practically, an unbiased review of his life from his birth to the events that sent his cohorts - Steve says they're his allies, comrades, friends, but none of those words seem right - into hiding. Information on his life in Brooklyn, and his years of service, and every thing they know that HYDRA has done to him. Reading it feels like an out of body experience. Having to look over what someone else sees of his life is unnerving.

At the end of the exposition on his life is one paragraph, short and to the point. It talks of how he is, or was, a prisoner of war. A man who committed acts of treason and war, who slaughtered people like sheep, due to duress and torture. A man brainwashed and torn apart to become nothing. A man with no name, no life, nothing more than a sharpened mold of what a man should be.

Following that, to his surprise, is... A plan. It looks like a plan. It mentioned rehabilitation and recovery. Treatments and sessions. Observers and overseers. Guidelines and, should they not be followed, disciplinary actions. Punishments. Nothing lethal, and nothing on the same level as what he's seen before, but it's all the same at its core. Underneath this, at the bottom of the last page, are spaces for eight signatures.

Beside each one is a name, typed out to identify who will sign where. James Barnes, Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Vision, Min-Ji Rhee, Alphonso Mackenzie. Eight names, most of which don't hold much significance to him. He recognizes some as the Avengers, some of them are in the room, and he knows the last is the current public Director of SHIELD. Each one is listed in the previous pages under his chargehands. None of them are Steve.

Satisfied with his assessment of the document, Bucky lays it face up on the table near his only real companion in the room. The blonde man flips through it in the same manner he did moments ago, blue eyes raking over the words and looking dissatisfied.

"Where would I stay?" Bucky questions, dutifully ignoring the sour look being given to him from Steve.

Rhodey takes the lead on this one. "The Avengers Facility, upstate."

"How far is it?" He asks, but it's not what he's really asking. Bucky wants - needs - to know how far it is from regular civilization. He needs to know that if anything happens, if he falters, he won't hurt anyone else.

"It's miles to the nearest gas station, much less town or city." Min-Ji tells him, and she looks like she knows what he's thinking. She looks like she pities him for it. He hates it. He hates her. "It is also under constant supervision."

"He's not an animal." Steve sounds pained, dropping the papers to the surface in front of them and shaking his head. "This isn't a zoo, or a lab experiment."

Scoffing, Tony props an elbow on the table and waves around a pen he must have pulled out while Bucky was perusing the paperwork. "Did you think he was going to get a senior center and a CNA to wipe his ass, Steve?"

"I didn't think he was going to need a taskmaster."

"Cap," Rhodes raises both hands, going for placating. "He's getting pardoned on these terms."

It's more than Bucky bargained for, but it doesn't seem to satisfy Steve whatsoever. "That's not the point."

"If I could," Min-Ji interrupts slowly. "Captain Rogers, this is the best option."

"You've read this." It's not a question.

"I have." She nods once. "I assisted in its revision."

"Then you know -"

Bucky has to tune them out again to weigh his options. They're going to talk about him as if he isn't in the room either way, he figures, so he can use the time however he likes.

It's not a bad deal. He'll get conditionally pardoned, but he'll be supervised for the rest of his life. Monitored the same way he was by handlers during his captivity. His compliance will be ensured by these people who hardly know him, and he'll have to attend sessions - therapy, he's sure - three times a week. He'll have a schedule, and he'll have to follow it. There will be an omnipresent artificial intelligence watching his every move, dictating who comes and goes from his 'private' quarters. None of those things fall into the same category as pleasant and yet...

There will be a room for him, with a bed he knows will seem too soft, and whatever food he requests at his fingertips. He'll have somewhere to sleep, and eat, and train without electric shocks and freezing temperatures. He'll have access to medical care and more than two sets of clothes, and a closet to store those clothes in. He'll be comfortable, to a point. He'll be safe. There will always be someone to make sure he's not going to lose himself again. Someone actually properly equipped to take him down, when it becomes necessary.

Because someone will have to, eventually. Bucky can admit this to himself. And he doesn't want it to be Steve, because it shouldn't have to be Steve, even though he knows he would if it came down to having to.

At his side, Steve is still trying to fight this. Always trying to fight, even if it's a losing battle. "Absolutely not, Tony. This isn't like -"

"Your name isn't on here." Bucky cuts into their conversation with no regard for the topic, raising one brow and causing Steve to still.

"It's not." Tony confirms, leaning forward. He rolls the pen under the pads of his fingers, looking between the two men out of time. Then, he admits: "I knew he wouldn't sign it."

"Because it's a life sentence." The man in question snaps, looking at Bucky like he's the one with the answers for once. He isn't, though, and they all know it. "He's not the villain, here."

Min-Ji's tone is consoling when she responds, a sigh on her lips. She looks at Bucky, not Steve, when she speaks. "These aren't normal circumstances."

"Not even close." Tony concedes, and he rolls the pen under his palm again before sending it rolling and clattering across the tabletop with a dull metal _'tick tick tick' _as the clip goes over the table.

"That's exactly why this should be reconsidered." Steve asserts.

Bucky reaches for the pen, and the blonde man stops him with a hand on his metal arm. It should be comforting, but he swiftly pulls his arm back. That part of him isn't fit to be touched, or acknowledged positively. He knows it isn't the same arm he had before, but it all feels the same. There's no difference to him. It's a weapon, just like the rest of him. His flesh hand grabs for the pen, cradles it tentatively.

Without his permission his mind flashes to other times. To sitting in the barracks, still damp from a downpour, using a pen that's almost out of ink to write a letter. _Ma, tell the girls it's cold out here. _Sitting around a round table with a group of men, grumbling over debriefings and how sore their hands are. Writing in a notebook that feels too small and fragile for his hands, bound leather and yellow tinted pages. _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

"It's not your decision." Bucky eventually manages, looking up at Steve. He looks like he's been wounded, like his old friend just stuck the pen right into his jugular.

He signs the papers, and Tony releases a tight breath, and the world keep turning and Bucky feels in his chest that this is _right. _The same part of him that knew without a doubt that the woman from his memories was named Adelaide says this is right. The Soldier whispers vile things in his ear, tells him of future betrayals and the mistake he just made. Bucky is able to close his eyes, ignore him, and he goes quiet in turn. The only voices in his head are the echoes of the ones in this room with him.

For the first time in decades, the only person in his head is Bucky. And while that doesn't feel quite normal or okay, it feels right.


End file.
